Out goes Viscount
Stern, a lucky individual with twenty thousand acres of land, and God
only knows what income. I mark off the name of Lord Templemere, one of
His Majesty's judges, entirely above suspicion. Next, Sir John
Sanclere; he also is rich, but Vincent Innis is still richer, so the
pencil obliterates both names. Now we arrive at Angus McKeller, an
author of some note, as you are well aware, deriving a good income
from his books and a better one from his plays; a canny Scot, so we
may rub his name from our paper and our memory. How do my erasures
correspond with yours, Monsieur Valmont?'
'They correspond exactly, Mr. Dacre.'
'I am flattered to hear it. There remains one name untouched, Mr
Lionel Dacre, the descendant, as I have said, of robbers.'
'I have not said so, Mr. Dacre.'
'Ah! my dear Valmont, the politeness of your country asserts itself.
Let us not be deluded, but follow our inquiry wherever it leads. I
suspect Lionel Dacre. What do you know of his circumstances before the
dinner of the twenty-third?'
As I made no reply he looked up at me with his frank, boyish face
illumined by a winning smile.
'You know nothing of his circumstances?' he asked.
'It grieves me to state that I do.
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